Malavandor
by fwalala
Summary: A small golden flower may be the key to saving Middle Earth from human nature.


**Disclaimer:** It is thus solemnly decreed that the standard applies.  

**Note: **Uh... Yeah... Feedback would be nice... *nods head* And, if you don't like the story, would you PLEASE add _CONSTRUCTIVE_ criticism?  C'mon people!  Make love!  Not war!  

a small golden flower 

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...

Bleeding.  The land was bleeding.  She was bleeding with the life-giving liquid that mortals had to offer, and little rivers of crimson hues stained the once-green land with a horrid trepidation.  A soft sigh was uttered into the sorrowful wind, and the sky seemed to howl in hearing the unending grief that was whispered in that one sigh.  The rivers seemed to change their flow of direction, and went against the natural current in order to follow the owner of that beautifully sculpted expression.  The seemingly insignificant utterance was so exquisite a symphony that it outshone the Heavens in all of its glorified passion.  With every small, mournful breath the owner took, the land appeared to exchange its gray, red-stained, dying shell in return for a greener glow.

She shook her head, nearly letting the cloth woven of silvery green leaves and silken threads fall from her shoulders.  Her hair was a cascading waterfall of auburn waters, spilling into graceful tresses that became an exquisite veil.  She slid off the golden-hued stallion.  Gently stroking his white-blonde mane, she kissed the tip of his nose, and urged him forward with a gentle elven tongue.  "Tenna' romen, amin Uuranor... tenna' aure," her voice serenading across the vulnerable, open air.  The few beings that dared to scavenge amongst the dead bodies all crooked their thin, goose-like necks as their gigantic, nocturnal eyes scouring across the vast wasteland in order to identify the speaker.  Silent cries filled the nightly breeze as the beings, mortals, immortals, creatures looked down at their hands in despair.  She was too beautiful, too ultimately exquisite to even gaze upon for a few moments with their throbbing eyes.

The delicately carved stallion strode with long, fleeting legs, as the maiden buried her small, wispy fingers in his silvery mane.  His cream-colored, clovered hooves hardly tapped the dusty path as he flew across the land.  Slowly, as the edges of the dark blanket of night began to give way to the orange fingers of dawn, she began to loosen her hold of his glossy, sleek mane.  The blurred trees became more and more prominent, until the dark, silhouetted fingers from each branch eerily grabbed at her cloak.  "N'uma," she whispered.  The eerie agitated movements of the trees ceased and the pitch black forest, untouched by the efforts of the sun, seemed to stare balefully at the maiden crossing the path.

In the midst of the deafening silence that surrounded the lady and her golden stallion, the intensely shadowy forest was swallowing them whole.  She slid off Uuranor, ridding his back of whatever burden her weight had supposed upon him.  As the scene became darker and darker with morose, sobering stillness, sudden flashes of green mottled her vision.  The leaves faded away into serene verdant greenery, and she stared at the welcoming vision it painted.  

Home.  It reminded her of home.  She took a deep breath of air, swallowing in the scent of a bouquet of fanciful leaves that sprayed the atmosphere like the spices that Man treasured so much.  A sea of light fluttering sorrow overwhelmed her emotions.  _Malarvandor.  _A place so untouched, and unadulterated by time, that every single spider web that sparkled with the morning dew was frozen in a lethargic, never ending spring.  Golden leaves and pink sunsets completed Malarvandor in a deep radiance that she thought could never be erased from history.  

But the battle cries of Moria and of Middle Earth could only infect and infest inside her beloved Malarvandor.  She could remember, even through her once – perhaps, still - naïve childhood eyes, the day the leaf-covered streets were empty of elven lads' outrageous cries, empty of the elders' philosophical talk.  And the ladies slowly faded away as the neat scrawls of letters stopped flowing.  Malavandor wore grief like a wedding dress, and she had wedded herself to an untimely death.  A single, bittersweet tear fell from her violet eyes.

The sentries, their crossbows still poised and tense, glanced at each other.  Their bluer-than-the-ocean-blue eyes met in confusion.  Such physical manifestations of grief were impossible for any elf to fabricate, was it not?  Did the fair maiden not have pointed ears and complexion that seemed to have an inner glow?  A sentry shook his blonde hair and peered back down at the young lady.  She had collapsed.

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Nay, the sea be not green nor blue with foaming white... it was as violet as a dream, laced with delicate sprays of cream.  Legolas belonged to the sea.  The burden of the well-worn quiver and trodden bow was no longer bestowed upon his back.  He smiled secretly to himself and yawned.  He turned over to look back at his companion.  "Gimli..."

The dwarf smiled sadly and shook his head.  Legolas was perplexed by the lack of conversation, "What news do you bring?"  Again, Gimli just shook his head.  "Legolas... do you remember the tales that surround the Ring?"

"Yes... I do..." Legolas replied.  More confusion was added into his sky-blue eyes and they intensified in a deeper blue.  He looked back at the sea.  And then, even the lapping smooth waters could not soothe his inquisitive soul, so he focused his attention upon the smoky colored mountains and jagged cliffs that adorned the shore like a king's crown.

Gimli wiped his eyes with his callused hand, when he stopped rubbing his eyes; he looked back down at the fading scars.  "Legolas... Mankind, Middle Earth is changing."

Legolas laughed, "Is that all the doom gloom and old fashioned glory that you are bombarding me with?"  Amusement twinkled in his eyes.

Gimli just shook his head once more; his shaggy mane of rough brown, braided hair was beginning to show some gray streaks.  "No, mankind is taking.  They're just taking and taking, and nothing is stopping them.  Dwarves are a dying race, Legolas!  And so are elves, and every other forsaken heritage on this land!" he cried out in despair.  He continued, "And Aragorn is dead.  Yes!  Strider is dead!"

Legolas could only stare.  His beautiful face was only accented by small shadows that fluttered across.  "You lie, Gimli.  It has only been several years since the battles of Mordor and Frodo Baggins.  Not even enough to count with all ten of mine fingers!"  He shook his head in denial. 

Gimli looked at him in the eye, his golden dwarf eyes shining fiercely with a watery sheen, "Legolas... his ashes have already been scattered by the Ainur into the wind.  We must return to Mirkwood, Legolas.  We must."

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She sat up in the white bed.  She studied her surroundings, and saw that she was nearly drowning in the fine silken sheets that had been provided.  A figure materialized from the shadows and the young lady pulled the covers up to her chin.  "You need not be tense... Alfirin."

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Okay... How'd you peoples like that?  Hmmm?  Feedback very, really appreciated.

**Warning:** I can fluently flame anyone else back!  Ha!

**Dictionary:**

Tenna' = until

Romen = sunrise

Amin = my

Uuranor = flaming sun *I used this as a name... I don't know if that's "good grammar" but, whatever.*

Aure = sunlight

Ainur = Holy ones

Alfirin = can you guess?  A small golden flower.

Malavandor = Okay, "mal" means "golden" and Avandor means "heaven", and for the purpose of this story, I added those two together, and I'm not too sure if that actually works in Elf language... but, it's a story!


End file.
